


busty blonde bimbo banned from bistro for boisterous belching

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Belching, Burp Kink, Burping, Gen, beer bloat, belly inflation, big tits, but not a whole lot, eructophilia, public embarrassment, ungendered second person narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:47:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26160628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sorry about the title. Burp kink story. Pretty straight-forward.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18
Collections: Anonymous





	busty blonde bimbo banned from bistro for boisterous belching

You almost didn’t bother swiping right once you saw her picture. Teeth china-white against her tanned skin, golden Rapunzel hair down to her hips, which bloomed full under the narrow stem of her waist, not to mention those absolutely massive breasts with her fat clementine-sized nipples blushing through the thin fabric of her shirt: this was a woman who dated billionaires and Ken dolls, not your pasty five-figure ass. You took a quick screenshot for later purposes. When you idly checked your phone later, you were sure it was due to some clumsiness on her part that made the two of you a match. Once she started messaging you, you were positive: this was a Catfish.

Strictly due to the fact that you’re lonely and pathetic, you now sit uncomfortably close to the hostess’s lectern, nervously rubbing the hem of the white tablecloth between your fingers. It’s a nice restaurant, whatever that means. You figure your bill will probably hit the triple digits, but you hope that if you order first and set the bar, she’ll catch on and order a fourteen dollar salad or something. Your choice in beverage will depend entirely upon her appearance.

A blow-up doll makes her way through the doors. She’s speaking with the hostess before it hits you that not only is this a flesh and blood human, but the girl from the picture. She hadn’t taken advantage of flattering angles or careful cropping in the least; if anything, she’s more incredible in 3D. Her tits are in constant motion, bouncing and jiggling and swaying with her slightest motions. Her lip are bee stung, if you happened to be deeply allergic to bees. They purse out in an idiotic pout, as if pushing forward in anticipation of being parted. As she approaches, you take note of her outfit: under a tissue-thin white tee shirt, her nipples are highlighted by a black micro-bikini top too small to even cover the entire surface. They hang heavy at the tips of her breasts, which ride high on her ribs. It’s a miracle she had managed to match her shoes. Her skirt is an afterthought; it has the tightness of a pencil skirt, but the length of a golf pencil. Once she reaches the table, she hikes it back down by the edges, just barely hiding the fat mound of her pussy under her black thong.

“Hi,” she smiles as she sits daintily on the edge of her chair. You wish you’d thought to pull it out for her.

“Uh—hi.” Your face is too numb to force into any sort of expression.

“I think I’m underdressed,” she giggles, tilting her gold-streaked lapis lazuli eyes upward toward the glass chandelier.

“No, you look,” you take your first inhale since she walked in, “absolutely incredible.”

Nearly all of the eyes in the restaurant are stuck on her. Not a single pair looks on with disapproval: even the women have a hungry, glazed look to them.

“Oh my gosh, thank you.” She’s got a face for magazines, a voice for radio, and a body for the internet. She shoves her face into the menu nearly instantly. “Have you ordered drinks yet?”

“Uh, no. Order whatever you want. Really. Cost is no object. I mean it.”

She hums in acknowledgement. “Love to hear that.”

When the waitress approaches, she takes a one-eighty trip around the table to position herself just behind your date. She doesn’t bother taking into consideration that this gives you an unobstructed view of her staring down the depths of your date’s cleavage. “Hi. I’m your waitress for tonight. Thanks for coming in. Really. Wow. Okay, are we ready to make our drink orders? If you’re having trouble deciding I can give you some recommendations. Or if you’d like to come up to the bar I can offer some samples. Free of charge.”

“Aw, that’s so nice!” She beams, teeth whiter than the tablecloth. “But I think I’ll just have two pitchers of beer. Whatever’s cheapest.”

The waitress takes a few moments to praise her excellent choice in beverages and continue to express gratitude over your date’s presence before leaving without giving you a single glance.

“Wow, it’s hard to believe a girl like you drinks beer.” Was that creepy and weird? It might have been creepy and weird. “I mean, because you’re so thin. But not skinny. I just mean-“

“Just wait and see. I’m a grower, not a shower.” You’re not sure if she’s telling you that she has a dick. It’s far from a deal breaker, but it would be great to know beforehand so you could nab a few shots in case she’s a top. She’s still scanning her menu with the fervor of an evangelist reading the bible.

The waitress returns (the first three buttons of her blouse came undone, you note) holding a tray with both pitchers and a couple of glasses. After placing them slowly and carefully on the table, she bends down far lower than necessary to pour just one glass full to the top. She doesn’t bother placing the second glass in front of you.

Your date smiles, but once the waitress is out of earshot, she amiably complains, “I wish she wouldn’t do that. I hate glasses. I need a spout, you know? Something to wrap my lips around. Or else I end up with a puddle between my tits.”

You falter slightly when you hear her emit such a brash word. You decide to be charmed before continuing to reach for the pitcher.

She grabs it by the handle and pulls it closer. “What are you doing?”

“Uh, I was gonna pour myself a beer.”

“Oh. Uh, I ordered these both for me.” Her other hands moves protectively close to the second pitcher.

“Oh.” What the fuck.

“Yeahhh.” She pours the glass back into the pitcher. “Go ahead and order yourself a beer, why dontcha?”

You’re stunned as she lifts the entire pitcher with both hands and tips into her wide maw. Before you can even process what you’re seeing, in four gulps, she drains it down to the foam, her jugs bouncing in rhythm with her throat. She nearly slams the pitcher to the table, making the wax in the candle on the center of the table splash, and then expectorates a satisfied sigh than melts into a moan, loud enough to draw perplexed stares from the people seated around you.

Once she catches her breath, she wipes the drool from her chin and hisses, “Fuck, that’s good. Aaah. Gosh, where’s that waitress? If she doesn’t take our order in about thirty seconds I’m going to eat her for dinner.”

You have no idea what to say. She hikes up her shirt to expose her slight belly, which is riding high and perky. Idly, like a supervillain petting a cat, she strokes it up and down. “Steak sounds amazing…what are you gonna get?”

You’re glad you looked over the menu before she arrived, because you don’t think you could read right now. “Uh, I was looking at the soup and maybe an appetizer as a side.”

“Hmm.” She peers back down at her menu. “You sure you’re not worried about the price? ‘Cuase it’s thirty two dollars for the steak.”

You have no idea how you feel about the show she just put on, but you do know you want to keep her sitting across from you, either out of grim masochistic disgust or brain-boiling arousal. You nod, then add on, “I’m sure.”

When the waitress comes back, she again crowds against your date. You make sure to blurt out your order first, before she can escape. She looks irritated as she scribbles it down on her pad.

“Is the steak already cut, or do they cut it as you order? Like, is there a butcher in the back?”

“Uhh, no, they come already cut. But I promise, they’re super fresh. We get a shipment every morning.”

“Alright, that’s okay. Uh, can I get six orders of the thirty-two ouncers? Three with the baked potato, and three with the mashed? Oh, and while you’re working on that, can you bring me out a couple more pitchers? Hold on just one sec—” she snatches up the remaining pitcher and performs an encore, holding up one finger. The waitress’s eyes are the size of the bread plates by the time she finishes. After wiping the foam from her lip with the back of her wrist, she hands to two empty pitchers to the waitress. “Can you go ahead and get these out of the way?”

You’re starting to understand why this 11/10 is willing to go out with you.

She leans way back in her chair, her knees spread, massaging her belly with both hands. You can hear it gurgling and bubbling as clearly as if you were inside of her. “Aaah, sorry I’m such a pig. _Horp_ —oof. You really should order some beer. There’s just nothing like it after a long day.”

“Oh, um—so what do you do?” You might as well run through your best material.

“I’m like a…professional vlogger, I guess? I mostly just do mukbangs and eating challenges, and then people who pledge a certain amount get to make dares. Plus I get a lot of sponsors. I know it’s kinda lame, but I get to do what I love and I love talking to my fans. And I make way more than I would in some cubicle. Not to mention—” her mouth blasts open as wide and round as a cantaloupe as a single sustained note like a trumpet explodes out of her. Hot, beer-scented air wooshes past your face, snuffing out the candle as it goes. It lasts maybe a full two Mississippis, and then as if nothing at all had happened, she continues, “—I get to make my own schedule.”

Before, the people around you were staring. Now the entirety of the dining room is facing in your direction.

One of her nipples have bounced free of her barely-there bikini top. The gossamer shirt she wears over top of it does nothing to conceal it; you can see every dimple. Even for her planet-sized breasts, they’re massive. It would be difficult to fit the whole thing into your mouth, but so god damn satisfying.

You hardly notice as the waitress drops off the third and fourth pitcher of beer.

“Wouldn’t you expect a place like this to have bread on the tables?” She hums loftily. “I’m starving. If we do this again, let’s just do the Taco Bell drive through, okay?” She heaves her third pitcher up to her mouth and takes an obnoxious slurp.

Her waist is still sapling narrow, so that her expanding belly protrudes out as if it’s just a ball resting in her lap. She nurses the third pitcher, taking loud sucks and slurps, staring into the middle distance.

“So, uh…uh…where did you grow up?”

Her cheeks balloon suddenly. She lifts a fist to her mouth, but then lowers it to let her jaw hang almost to her collar bone. Her first belch sounded like a trumpet. This one sounds like the entire brass section. It starts out rumbling, growling, in the back of her throat, but then lifts in pitch as it fills her mouth. Her tongue moves around the open cavern of her mouth as if she’s attempting to shape out words. You feel the vibrato in your lower belly, the quivering of the table, rattling the little plates and wine glasses. Shock gives way to fascination as she rounds the five second mark. Not a single mouth in the restaurant moves. Ten seconds in, she throws her head back. You can see the heat pouring up out of her mouth the way it does on hot highways. After giving a few hefty pounds on her chest, each one dragging up a renewed thrust in volume, she eventually peters out into a low gurgle. She grips the edge of the table, steadying herself as she desperately pants for air, face red and dripping with sweat.

“Oh _fuck._ That feels so fucking good. I think I came a little. Oh, fuck. I think I was born with my uvula and my clit swapped. You know when your throat really rattles around and—” The waitress, once again, appears at her shoulder, frowning for the first time. Your date looks to her expectantly.

“Hey, I’m so so sorry, but my manager asked me to ask you guys to take your food to go. We can comp the beer—we can comp _one_ of the beers—but, uh—”

Your date waves her off. “No big deal. Not the first time I’ve been kicked out a restaurant.” She projects a quick but deafening belch that echoes off of the ceiling. The waitress’s hips wiggle and twist. Without looking at you, she tosses the bill in your general direction. You jam your card in without looking at the number. You’re not mentally equipped to deal with that right now.

Once the waitress disappears again, your date chugs down the fourth pitcher. She punctuates it with another pleased moan. “Let’s eat back at your place. This works out great, actually. Whenever I eat out, they always make me pay to get the chair cleaned. Oh, and fair warning—anything that gets within my eating radius gets swallowed whole. Seriously. I once swallowed this chick’s arm down to the elbow. She was trying to steal one of my fries, though, to be fair.”

You’ve finally decided: this is love.

After the waitress hands you the three bags stuffed to the top with take-out cartons, your date stands, once again hiking her skirt down past her buttcheeks. She follows her belly, and you follow her, back to the entrance. At the door, she quickly spins on her heel, facing back into the dining area, and raises one fist high. Her jaw drops again, and a sound like a metal trash can filled with gravel rolling down a mountainside pours easily from her mouth, ricocheting off every hard surface, shaking the chandeliers, flooding the whole room with heat and a fog of beer almost too thick to breathe. At the very end, she yanks her own top up, freeing both of her downright monstrous tits, and aims her mouth around her belch to form the words, “BYE-BYE.”

She doesn’t bother replacing her top as she struts proudly back to her car, belly bouncing merrily. As she fiddles with her keys, she asks, “Can we hit the liquor store and pick up a keg on the way there?”


End file.
